


Defenseless

by jazzayeet



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Dungeons and Dragons, Jesus fucking christ this hurts, Medieval, Oh my GOD this is so bad, Wow, holy fuck, why? why am i like this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25266196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzayeet/pseuds/jazzayeet
Summary: She had to run.She didn’t even have time to turn around.
Kudos: 1





	Defenseless

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, hi, this is violent. be warned.

Mella hid behind a tree. Its trunk was huge—wide enough to completely conceal her from the view of anyone in front of it, and she peeked around it. She’d wandered off in search of firewood for the party, because Merchant’s supply was fast running out, and rain had ruined a good bit of it, so some good, dry firewood was definitely needed before it started getting cold.

That wasn’t what she’d found. Instead, in front of the tree was a large man—tall and muscle-bound, covered in blood—standing over a corpse whose face had been caved in. Mella couldn’t make out any features, other than two gaping, red holes where the eyes should’ve been and a dent centered at his nose. And the man’s hands were coated in blood.

She knew better than to approach. She knew this was someone it was best for her to avoid. Even if he bore no inherent ill-intention towards her, it didn’t seem like a reach to suppose he likely wasn’t the calmest of folks. The blood he wiped from his hands was testament to that. She wanted to flee—to look for firewood in another direction, but she couldn’t. The man’s gaze, while not directly on her, was faced in her direction. 

Mella remembered what Tarelorn had told her. Movement, that’s what people saw the fastest, and the best way to hide was to stay perfectly still. So, that was what she’d do. She would stay perfectly still until he looked away. 

He didn’t. 

His eyes caught hers like a snare and narrowed, and her breath caught in her throat. She tried to take a step back, reaching a hand behind her to try and feel her way around the trees without taking her eyes off of the man. 

Not bothering with the greatsword on the ground—he wouldn’t need it—the man started to approach. Long, deliberate strides took him towards her faster than she could hope to get away, easily stepping around and over the various roots and logs that littered the ground, as if they weren’t there. 

She had to run. 

She didn’t even have time to turn around. He was there within seconds, a massive, armored hand reaching out to seize her by the throat and slam her against a tree trunk. The force of the impact rattled through her. A series of cracks and snaps brought with them a swarm of pain unlike anything she’d ever felt before, somehow simultaneously sharp and blunt, dull and brilliant. It spiked in her spine, wrapping around her ribs and shooting up her neck into the back of her head. 

A strangled cry started to tear itself free from Mella’s throat, weak from the lack of breath she was able to put behind it. The sound only seemed to make the man angrier. His grip around her throat tightened, almost completely cutting off her breathing. She gasped and gagged, trying to get air past the man’s fingers and into her lungs. She clawed desperately at the hand, trying in vain to pry the fingers away but failing to find purchase with her own.

Her dagger. If she could just…

She reached down, dropping her hand under the man’s outstretched arm to try to reach the dagger at her belt. She managed—barely—to get her fingers around the hilt and start to draw it out. The brute noticed and sneered, letting out a sadistic laugh, all malice, no humor. With a backhand to her wrist, he knocked the dagger away as easily as if her grip on it hadn’t been tight enough to blanch her knuckles. It stuck into the dirt several feet away. 

Her struggling weakened as darkness started to creep into her vision, like ink spilled on a picture. The man seemed to notice and loosened his grip—just barely, only enough to let the blood hammer its way to her brain. Enough to keep her from passing out. 

Enough to let her hear Tarelorn’s voice calling out for her. “Mella? Mella, where are you?”

He’d be there soon, she thought. He’d be there soon, and he’d protect her. He always did, right? He’d promised that. She’d be okay. The man heard it, too, and looked over his shoulder at the sound. 

Tarelorn appeared some distance behind the man, who sneered at the sight of him before turning his attention back towards Mella. 

Everything seemed to happen simultaneously too fast and in slow motion. She saw Tarelorn’s eyes fill with something between dread and rage as they took in the scene before him. She saw him extend the hidden blades at his wrists. She saw him start to charge the man.

He wasn’t fast enough.

Armored fingers dug into where her belly was soft, the sharp plate edges easily breaking through skin and pulling down, tearing it open as easily as if it was paper. She gasped at the pain, sudden and burrowing, as blood poured freely from the gaping wound. She tried futilely to push the hand away from her stomach. 

The man dropped her like she was a doll he’d grown bored with, and she fell in a heap at the base of the tree, arms clenched across her stomach as if she could hold herself together by doing so, trying to roll over but finding herself too weak to do so.

The man turned just in time to dodge the blade Tarelorn stabbed out towards his neck with, letting out another dry, humorless laugh before turning to round on the elf, and step towards him, forcing him away from the tree and obstructing Mella from view. Tarelorn knew he couldn’t afford the distraction that trying to look at her, past the man, would be. He could hear her, gasping and crying weakly on the ground. 

Anger spiking up in his chest with every faint sob, his teeth clenched as he forced his attention back to the paladin. He tried to maneuver around him in a bid to put himself between him and Mella. The man sneered at the effort. “Oh, look at you, trying to protect the little fool.” He growled, stepping towards Tarelorn, sidestepping the wrist blade, and slamming his fist into the spot right under Tarelorn’s ribs. 

Tarelorn gasped, doubling over as the air was forced from his lungs. It hurt. Some part of him wanted to stop, to give up, but he couldn’t. 

He had to finish this brute off, and quickly. Drawing in a deep breath, he swiped out with his blade, catching the paladin by surprise and managing to slash his cheek. He reared back, a hand coming up to cover the gash before rage contorted his face. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” He stepped towards Tarelorn, bringing his fist forward in a strike towards his nose, which the elf managed to duck under, only to find himself hit with a knee to the teeth that sent him reeling back, bringing a hand up to cover his bloodied mouth before standing again, spitting out a molar and a mouthful of blood.

“If only you’d gotten here sooner.” The paladin taunted. “Maybe you would’ve been able to keep her safe. But you didn’t.” He swept out towards the side of Tarelorn’s head with a haymaker, which the elf managed to jump back and evade. “And now? She’s dying,” the paladin snarled. “And there’s nothing you can do about it. And it’s your fault. _You_ let her out of your sight.” 

He caught Tarelorn’s wrist as the latter attempted again to strike out with the hidden blade. He failed to see the other blade coming out to slip between his ribs, drawing a noise like an offended beast before he growled. “Honestly? You should be thanking me for taking that burden off your hands. Trust me, you’ll be better off for it.” 

If Tarelorn’s composure had been cracking before, those words shattered it. An enraged shout ripped itself from his throat like a bee tearing itself from its stinger, and he lunged at the paladin, blade striking towards his throat with lethal precision, embedding into his windpipe. The sound of the paladin choking on his own blood and the metal of the blade was...almost satisfying. Tarelorn wanted to stay there, listen to his last gasping breaths. He wanted to hear him suffer. 

But the sound of Mella gasping and weeping under the tree reminded him that he couldn’t. There was no time to indulge in the brute’s demise. So, he ripped the blade out of his throat, sidestepping the arc of blood that sprayed forth as the light left the brute’s eyes, and he fell back like a tree, dead.

Retracting the blades, Tarelorn caught his breath. He became aware of Mella again, the way she was gasping and coughing and crying. Still alive. He wanted so badly to believe that was a good thing. It meant there was still hope, right? It meant there was still something he could do, but gods forgive him, he didn’t know _what_ . There was some part of him, a part he _hated_ more than anything, that wished she had died. That wished he didn’t have to hear the dreadful sounds that came from her.

He ignored it and sprinted over to where she lay in a growing pool of blood. Dropping to his knees beside her, he rolled her over onto her back and reached into his belt pouch, taking out a roll of gauze. “Mella, move your arms,” he said, voice as steady as he could manage, gently trying to coax her arms away from her stomach.

She’d been torn open. The only thing protecting her insides from the outside world was a thin layer of membrane that’d been stretched and torn in some places. He stared, hands hovering uselessly for a few seconds. This was a nightmare, right? Just another one of the many nightmares he’d had like this—though they usually ended with her armless, hanging upside down with a hook through her pelvis.

It wasn’t a nightmare. He couldn’t wake up from it. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Tarelorn put one hand under her upper back, lifting her gently and grimacing at the painful way her breath hitched. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he said, placing her head in his lap and wrapping the entire roll of gauze around her midsection. “You’re gonna be okay.”

She started bleeding through the gauze within seconds. It wasn’t doing any good. He took his coat off and wrapped it around her as tightly as he could manage, pressing his hands over it to try to keep pressure on the bleeding. 

He just needed to get her back to Merchant. Merchant would know what to do; they’d be able to heal her. 

He scooped her up into his arms and tried to stand, stopping when he felt the way bones that shouldn’t have been moving shifted against him, and she cried out in pain. 

There was nothing he could do. She was too badly hurt, and if he moved her, he risked hurting her even worse. Merchant needed to come to them. 

At the sound of heavy footsteps, he looked up. “Merchant!” he called.

The footsteps quickened, and before long, they were standing there. They dropped to their knees next to Tarelorn, reaching out towards Mella. “Oh, gods,” they whispered, seeing the extent of her injuries, gently placing their massive hand on her tear-stained cheek. “I’m...going to go...get my wand,” they said. “Stay...stay alive, okay?” They turned to Tarelorn. “Don’t try to move her. Stay put, please. I’ll be right back.”

Tarelorn nodded his understanding, and Merchant stood, jogging away. 

The elf looked at Mella, bringing a hand to brush a lock of hair from the sweat on her forehead. She brought her hand up to grab onto his, and he gasped at how cold it was, shifting his own hand to close around hers. “C’mon, let’s warm you up,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. He drew circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, a gesture he’d used before to comfort her. “You’re gonna be okay, Mel, I promise. Merchant’s gonna be back any second, alright? Just hang in there. We can fix this.”

She looked so tired—quiet, painful sobs wracking her body, a trail of blood coming from her ear, a dazed look in her eyes and an ashen tone to her face. As ill-versed as he was in anything related to medicine, he knew.

He knew she was fading.

No, _no_. He pushed that thought from his mind. He just needed to keep her alive until Merchant got there. He could do it. He’d promised she wouldn’t die while he was there to protect her, and he was. “C’mon, Mella, stay with me,” he said. “I—I know it hurts, but you gotta keep breathing, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked up for Merchant, spotting them moving closer, jogging up to the pair. Letting out a sigh of relief, a small smile starting to open across his face in spite of everything, he said, “See? What’d I tell ya? Merch’s right there!” He silently sent up a thank you to whatever gods were listening. “You’re gonna be okay, Mella.”

It was then that he heard the silence. “Mella?” 

He closed his eyes.

Dread sat heavy in his chest. He didn’t want to look. As long as he didn’t look, it wasn’t real, right? If he didn’t look, he could pretend he still felt her shallow, ragged breathing against his own pounding heart. If he didn’t look, he could pretend she didn’t feel so horribly heavy in his arms.

So, for several moments, he didn’t look. He kept his eyes shut, trying to stifle the sobs that tried to rattle his even breathing.

But he couldn’t keep his eyes shut forever. He knew, sooner or later, he’d have to look. He didn’t want to see his suspicions confirmed. He didn’t want to be right. He opened his eyes and turned them towards the sky, teeth clenched.

_Goddammit, just let me be wrong._

Finally, he looked down at her, his blue eyes meeting her green but finding no purchase in her gaze. He wasn’t sure how he managed to keep his voice so calm as he muttered, “Mella.” He shook her gently, trying to rouse him. “Mella, no.” He shook his head, the words starting to snag in his throat, sticking like paws caught in a trap. “Mella, c’mon, please, don’t do this.” He shook her again, brushing her hair behind her ear and gently tapping the side of her face. “Please, Mel,” He whispered.

He fell silent, lips moving silently. The next thing that came out of his mouth was not words, but rather, a scream, pained, seeming to tear apart as it ripped itself from his throat. He pulled her close, pressing her against his chest, as if his heartbeat would bring back hers as well.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

“Mella…” he heard Merchant’s voice, hardly more than a whisper, choked up. He looked up at them as they knelt down in front of him, reaching out towards the girl as if to take her from Tarelorn’s arms. 

Holding her closer, arms wrapped protectively around her, Tarelorn shook his head. “Don’t touch her,” he shot, half demand, half plea. “ _Don’t. Touch. Her._ ”

Sighing, Merchant nodded. “I won’t touch her,” they promised, looking down and setting their hands on their knees as Tarelorn seemed to relax, very slightly loosening his grip on her. Their eyes moved towards the lifeless face of the girl in Tarelorn’s arms. “Let’s…” they started, choking up and wiping the tears from their eyes with the back of their hand. “Let’s get her back to camp.” 

For several moments, Tarelorn didn’t move. He just sat there, eyes fixed on Mella’s face. 

“Tarelorn.” Merchant attempted.

Nothing, for several moments, then he passed a hand, as steady as he could force it to be, over Mella’s face, gently coaxing the lids shut over eyes that would never see the trees or the flowers again. He pressed his lips to Mella’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Then, finally, he allowed Merchant to coax him to standing. They gently started guiding him back to camp with a hand on his shoulder, helping him around the various obstacles the forest floor presented. 

Tarelorn, meanwhile, just walked. Didn’t think; didn’t seem aware of the obstacles around him at all. He just stared forward, numbly. 

As they walked, he became aware of the way she felt in his arms—awkward and far heavier than she had any right to be, nothing supporting her but the crooks of his elbows. 

And the blood that coated his shirt.

He wanted to be sick.

When they finally arrived back at camp, he quickly put Mella down on one of the beds as gently as he could. It was all he could do to not drop her. His whole body trembled as he stood up, arms empty.

But they remained bent, as if she was still there. He could still feel the weight, the burden, as if he hadn’t put her down at all. He wondered if he’d ever be able to. He forced his arms to unbend.

His voice trembling, he said, “I need to—” He seemed to want to say more, but nothing came out, and he walked away. 

Merchant sighed, laying on the ground next to Mella’s bed, curling up and closing their eyes, as if this would all be gone when they woke up.

Tarelorn, meanwhile, had returned to the tree Mella had writhed and struggled under. Seeing the blood soaking into the ground, he became horribly aware of the way his shirt stuck to his skin, covered with that same blood. He peeled it off as quickly as he could, throwing it to the ground, nearly staggering into a tree before bracing himself against it and vomiting until nothing came up, and it devolved into some horrible combination between dry heaving and sobbing. He slammed his fist into the bark, drawing blood from his knuckles and grunting. 

He wanted to be angry. Anger was easier than this horrible feeling that gripped his heart like a vice. But he couldn’t. The paladin was dead; there was nothing left to be angry at. 

Nothing except himself. Himself, and this tree that stood so tall and proud, indifferent to the suffering it bore witness to. 

So, he slammed his fist into it again, and again, and again, until he could no longer muster the strength to swing again, and he dropped to his knees, sobbing, until finally, mercifully, exhaustion finally took him, and he passed out.


End file.
